From the Early Morning Mist

From the Early Morning Mist

Word Count=3342

         Hiram gazed across the rocky country side. It was rugged country, unlike his own home at Chehaw Station in Macon County, Alabama. As he soaked in the beauty of the landscape, he was oblivious to the impact of the eons on this place, oblivious of what it took for nature to sculpt the place where he stood. He knew nothing of the glaciers that rolled the massive stones into rugged formation nor the effort it had taken for nature to coax the sporadic growth of thickets and forests in that place. He was simply a boy of eighteen, remote from home, learning the harsh realities of man’s violent nature.

         It was early morning. Soon, he would be asked to begin the endless marching that had become a constant part of his young life. He had twenty-six miles to cover; at the end of which waited the possibility of eternal uncertainty. The early morning mist hung heavy in this place. It was not unusual to awake and witness an eerie fog wafting through the trees. Despite the six-hundred men gathered in the 15th Alabama Infantry, the silence of the summer morning held a glorious beauty which was incongruous to the purpose which brought them to this place. And, so it was from the morning mist he assembled with other men and boys and marched.

         They covered half of the twenty-six miles by midday. At a brief break for lunch, which consisted of beef jerky and water from his canteen, Hiram sat next to his hometown friend and passed idle conversation.

          “William, how many miles do you think we’ve traveled from Chehaw Station?”

          “Don’t rightly know, Hiram. Seems like all I do is walk and fight. Don’t know if’n I know which one is worse. I just keep ‘em separated by the sleep. Heck, I’m not sure where we are, anymore. Feller told me that we were somewhere in Pennsylvania.”

          “Pennsylvania, that’s a long way from Alabam; ain’t it, William?”

          “That it is, Hiram; that it is.”

          “William, do you think we will ever get home to see our kin agin?”

         There was silence between the two friends. Eventually, nineteen-year-old William responded, “Nope, Hiram, I don’t see that we have much of a chance to get back. Seems like the Yankees are bound an’ determined to spoil our chances. But, don’t think of it, Hiram. Don’t even give it no mind; and, before you know it, maybe this here war will be over. It cain’t last forever.”

          “Did you see the mist covering the ground this mornin’, William? I swear it’s the most awesome of sights. You kinda forgit what’s happenin’. I mean the peace of the moment just washes over a fella. I look forward to seeing that, I mean, every morning. I want to see it again tomorrow.”

          “You will, Hiram; God willin’, you will. Now get your gear together; we’ve got a spell further to march.”

         The rest of the day the 15th Alabama snaked through the valleys and meadows of Pennsylvania. The heat of the July afternoon sapped their strength and tried their resolve. Eventually, with canteens half empty, they stopped at the base of twin hills strewn with boulders and covered with trees. In the distance they heard cannon and rifle fire. Occasionally, they heard the suppressed sounds of men shouting and bugles sounding. One and all of them recognized they were on a battlefield. It was late in the afternoon, and they successfully covered their twenty-six miles. Every one of the men deserved a good meal and an evening rest. But, that was not what they would get; it just was not in the plan.

          “Form up men!” the sergeant bellowed. “Dixie has a job for you. Form up!”

         Quickly the men found formation; they faced the smaller of the two hills before them.

         The lieutenant spoke out strongly, “You see the lesser of those two hills over yonder? Well, the Yankees are up on top of that hill. That represents the extent of their left flank. We are going to go up there and take that position and by so doin’ collapse their line. Now the 4th Alabam and the 47th Alabam has been scrappin’ with them all afternoon. Them Yankees are tired and low on ammunition. We figure the 15th Alabam is the outfit who can finish ‘em off. We’re goin up that hill and show General Lee what a real fightin’ outfit looks like.”

         The lieutenant finished his talk and left the men to prepare themselves. Each eye glanced up to the tree covered hill. The grass of the meadow was green and dotted with grey protruding boulders; the picturesque meadow was accented by the lush green of the trees on the hill. But, within that pastoral landscape laid a dangerous foe. Hiram prepared to march again; but this time he would advance, with William and the rest of the 15th Alabama, up that hill.

         The command to proceed was given, the bugles sounded; as a single unit the men began their steady ascent of the hill, through the meadow, over and around the boulders, and up to the tree-line at the very base of the hill. Hiram knew the Yankees were in there, waiting. The first rank of men entered the trees. They proceeded up the hill. Hiram, in the second rank of men, entered the forest at the base of the hill. There were no signs of the Yankees. Maybe they weren’t here. Hope flooded his emotions.

         Suddenly, a deadly volley of rifle fire erupted from the timbered crest of the hill. The unique sound of zipping balls assaulted his senses--followed by thudding sounds, as their flight was stopped by trees which splintered, and bodies, which dropped with cries and often silence. Onward and upward Hiram climbed. His ears were assaulted by the sound of men shouting orders, encouragement, and there were anguished cries from the wounded and dying. From the top of the hill he saw the Yankees moving about, shouting their own orders and words of battle. Occasionally, he stopped, loaded, and fired. He scarcely aimed; it was more of a point. As the 15th Alabama ascended the hill he saw Yankee bodies also falling forward over their embankments and hastily constructed cover. But, the fire from the foe was fierce and the 15th Alabama fell back, still taking fire, and losing men. Hiram stumbled back to the base of the hill, where the Rebs regrouped and reformed.

         Hiram frantically looked for William; he soon found him kneeling at the base of a boulder, stuffing a cloth swatch inside a bloody shirt.

          “William, are you hit?” Hiram exclaimed with concern.

         William smiled at his young friend, “Tain’t nothin’. A Yankee ball hit me in the shoulder. Nothin’ broke and it went plumb through. Hurts a might, but nothin’ that won’t keep me from goin’ back up that hill!”

          “Well, best stick close to me, William!” Hiram pleaded, “We can watch each other’s back. That bullet hole’s gonna' slow you down a might. We might as well stick together.”

          “Sounds good to me, Hiram. We’ll sure have a tale to tell when we get back to Chehaw Station. Now, let’s go!”

         William and Hiram joined the formation and advanced again on the base of the hill. Again there was silence as the first rank entered the tree-line. However, this time Hiram knew there were Yankees staring down at him from the crest of the wooded hill. And, again a volley of rifle-fire chewed up the earth, trees, and bodies as men fell on either side of him. The Rebels yelled and raced, as best they could, up the stony wooded hill. The fire from the Yankees intensified. Hiram wondered how that could be, as on up the hill he rushed, stopping occasionally to fire his weapon, reload, and then rush on.

         Near the top of the hill he saw the Yankees firing, heard the balls whiz by his head, saw the Yankees reloading rifles with the ramrods, and saw them falling mortally wounded. But yet the madness continued and onward he climbed. He lifted his foot to step over a fallen branch. His shoe caught on the branch, throwing him off-balance. Hiram plummeted to the ground face first. Instantly, he heard the whiz of the bullet and the immediate thud as it entered William’s body. As Hiram turned he saw his boyhood friend, who was standing directly behind him, fall on top of him. The dead weight of the fall knocked the air from Hiram's lungs. He gasped for breath and struggled with the body of his dead friend.

         Above the chaos he heard, as if it were possible, the accelerated shouts of men. He lifted his head and was totally amazed at what he saw. The Yankees were charging down the hill with bayonets fixed, slashing, spearing, and swinging the butts of the long guns at the advancing Rebels. The advance broke; the men and boys of the Alabama grey began to turn and run down the hill away from the charging Yankees. He lay back under William’s body while looking frantically for his gun. He could not find it. Yankees were jumping over him now, taking him for one of the dead or wounded. Hiram knew the day was lost for the 15th Alabama.

         It was near dusk. The sounds around Hiram changed. He could hear distant cannons, but around him there was no rifle fire. He could hear the moans of wounded men. He also heard the stirring of men as they walked among the forest, checking bodies. William’s lifeless body still lay on Hiram, shielding him from detection. Eventually, Hiram could endure it no longer and struggled to free himself from the burden of his friend's dead body. With a forceful tug William's body rolled over on its back. Hiram took a deep breath and rose to his knees. He looked closely at his friend realizing he would not be going back to Chehaw Station. William would remain in these ancient woods remote from his home. He was cut from life by a Yankee bullet to his chest—a bullet Hiram figured was meant for him.

          “Good-bye ole friend,” Hiram spoke and began to rise to his feet.

          “Hold it right there, Reb!” a voice called from behind.

         Hiram froze and spoke carefully, “I’m unarmed, Yank.”

          “You rise up slowly and turn around; an’ keep those hands where I can see them!”

         Hiram did as he was told. He rose and then slowly turned around. Facing him was a young boy dressed in blue. Powder was smudged over his face, received from firing his gun repeatedly. He was dirty and a crease of dried blood extended across his cheek.

          “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Yank. Wouldn’t know where to go if’n I wanted to.”

          “Where’s your gun?”

          “Lost it. I fell and tossed it somewheres around here. Looked a spell for it but didn’t find it. But, then, I didn’t get much of a chance, the way you Yanks came runnin’ down that hill.”

          “Yeah, Reb, kinda surprised me too. Colonel Chamberlain yelled, ‘Bayonets!’ and the next thing I know we were runnin’ down that hill chasin’ you Rebs all the way to Richmond.”

          “Well, you sure nuff scared the hell out of me!”

         The boy in blue smiled and said, “Me too. Well, I guess I better get you up that hill with the others. Tomorrow morning you’re gonna' be out of this war. You’re now a prisoner of the Union Army.”

         Hiram, shrugged. He was somewhat relieved; the marching would soon be over. He certainly wouldn’t be charging up no more hills with Yankees shooting down at him. He walked ahead of the boy in blue; he walked up the hill, this time uncontested. At the top of hill he was herded into a group of twenty or more men from the 15th Alabama. He did not know these men. Outside of William, he knew very few of the other soldiers. They were huddled together around a fire. Six Union soldiers, of which one was the boy in blue, were left to guard the captured Rebels.

         Later in the evening, the boy in blue wandered to where Hiram sat alone, removed a few paces from the other prisoners.

          “Where are you from, Reb?” The boy in blue asked.

         Hiram studied his captor briefly and responded, “I’m from Chehaw Station. That’s in Macon County, Alabama.”

          “What outfit are you with?”

          “We’re the 15th Alabam. Who are you?”

          “I’m with the 20th Maine. You can call me Robert.”

          “Folks at home call me Hiram.”

          “How old are you Hiram?”

          “Old enough,” Hiram responded brusquely, then slowly said, “I’m eighteen.”

         Robert chuckled, “Me too.”

          “You know, Yank, a fella ought to know the name of a place where he fought and where his friends died. Does this place have a name?”

          “They tell me this here hill you stormed up is called Little Round Top. That town over there in the valley is called Gettysburg.”

         Hiram sat in silence for a moment and then spoke, “What’s so important about that hill.”

         Robert shook his head and shrugged, “Beats me. It’s so blame rocky and tree covered you can’t get no cannon on it. An’ there’s higher ground on the other hill. I guess the only thing that made it important was the fact we were sittin’ on it.”

          “What I can’t understand, Yank, is why you was sittin’ on it anyway. Heck, you’re from Maine. If’n you’d just concern yourself with things up North, none of us would be here. I’d be home in Chehaw Station.”

          “Reb, if’n you’d have freed the slaves, we wouldn’t be here neither.”

          “Oh, it ain’t about the darkies, Yank. If’n you’d have let us be, we’d have freed them in our own good time. I hear tell that there was a hankerin’ to do that in most of the states of the Confederacy. Heck, what we should’a done was freed the slaves first and then fired on Sumter. The real reason we are here is to keep you Yanks from takin’ our way of life from us.”

          “Hiram, I don’t want to take anything from you. All I want is to help preserve the Union. It just seems to me that for the good of the South as well as the North, we have a better chance in this world if’n we face it together.”

          “You may be right, Yank. But, it looks like I’m finished for the rest of this war. I just hope I have a home to go back to when it’s over.”

          “Yes, of course, you are right; home is the place to be. I want to go home too. About this time in the evening, at home, the heat leaves; and, the cool winds off of the ocean are right nice. When the clouds blow off, a million stars compete with each other to shine the brightest. That’s my favorite time of day, the early evening.”

          “I suppose I’m lookin’ at those same stars, Yank. They don’t care who they shine for. The evenings aren’t as comfortable back home, but the night prepares the way for the most delightful mornin’ you’ll ever know. That’s what I like most, the mornin’s.”

         Robert smiled, nodded, and left Hiram to his thoughts. It had been an exhausting day; both prisoners and guards alike were spent and tired. However, only the boys in gray would sleep tonight. Hiram found a spot by the fire and lay on his back and allowed the thoughts of the day and of William take him into a fitful slumber. The guards spelled each other through the sleepless night as they kept vigil over the prisoners.

         It was early morning. Hiram lay on his side and watched the valley below the hill. The cool of the night laid the foundation for the early morning mist. It hung as a fog over the battlefield and was densest towards the bottom of the hill, where it hid the boulders of the meadow. The Union dead had been gathered after the conflict. However, many of the Confederate dead still lay on the field, covered only with the mantle of fog and mist. Somewhere down there at the bottom of the hill was what remained of the 15th Alabama. Somewhere down there, at the bottom of the hill, beyond this valley lay home.

         Hiram stared in wonder at the fog; he seemed to hear it beckoning to him—for him to leave where he was and enter the mysterious and nebulous shroud. He rose to a sitting position, clasped his arms around his knees and continued to study the misty mantle in the meadow below, with its fingers weaving through the early reaches of the woods.

          “I should go,” he thought. “My place is there.”

         He rose to his feet. The others were still sleeping. The guards were scattered about. Hiram glanced in the direction of the Union guard nearest him. He saw Robert standing, watching him. He had his rifle raised, as if he were ready for Hiram to begin to walk away—ready to call out, “Halt!”—ready to fire when Hiram did not heed the command.

         Hiram looked toward the fog, took a deep breath and then took a step. He took another and then yet another. The early morning mist held a mysterious beauty to him. It enticed him and seduced him, pulling him down the hill into its eerie cover. He waited for the command from Robert, waited for the shot.

          “Hiram?”

          “That’s curious,” thought Hiram. It was not a shout to stop, not a command, but rather a question. He stopped and turned to Robert, not intending to return, but to address the question that hung with the simple mention of his name.

          “Where are you goin’, Hiram?” Robert advanced a few steps with his weapon trained on the young Rebel.

          “Home, I’m goin’ home.”

          “It’s a long way to Alabama, Johnny Reb.”

          “I reckon that’s true. But, I’m goin’ home. Down there in that mist is a trail that leads me to Chehaw Station. Me an’ William walked into this here war together. If’n one of us is gonna’ go home, it’s gotta be me. One way or the other, I’m going home, either home to Chehaw Station or home to where William is. Are you gonna’ shoot me Yank?”

         The two boys, one in gray and one in blue, stood still in the early morning mist. No one spoke for what seemed like a long time.

         Robert spoke quietly as he lowered his gun to the ground, “Naw, I’m not gonna shoot you. I couldn’t even if’n I wanted to; an’ I don’t want to.”

         Hiram studied the young boy facing him. He knew Robert wasn’t finished talking so he urged him, “Go on, Yank.”

          “You know that charge we made down that hill yesterday? Well, it was the only thing we could do. You Rebs hurt us sorely. We were out-manned and outgunned. We had no more ammunition. All I had left was the rocks around me. This here gun I’ve been guarding you with? Well, heck, it ain’t even loaded. No one’s given me any more loads. None of us up there have any.”

         Hiram smiled at the irony of his situation, “Well, at least you got a gun.” He turned his gaze back to the valley and the fog and mist. He began to walk down the hill, through the battlefield, past his fallen comrades.

         Robert watched him go, watched him fade into the cover of the fog. “Go on home, Johnny Reb; go on home.” He sat upon a boulder and watched Hiram disappear. He never much noticed the early foggy mornings before. Only then did he notice how the mist parted and swirled slightly, as a wake, as Hiram penetrated the foggy mantle. He thought to himself, “My, the early morning mist, it is an awesome sight.”